


Lazaruses, Rising

by bandedbulbussnarfblat



Series: Bela, Rising [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-08 02:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandedbulbussnarfblat/pseuds/bandedbulbussnarfblat
Summary: His attention is focused on the handmark on her arm matching his.  Not perfectly matching his, it’s on her opposite arm and it’s the mirror of his.  Two halves of a pair of hands.“What does it mean?” Bela says, as bewildered as him.“It means trouble.”





	Lazaruses, Rising

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided my AU season 4 fic works better as a series, with each episode as a separate work, as the story roughly follows the plot of season 4, and each episode is a self-contained story. I'll still leave up The Righteous Woman for those who'd rather read it there, but overall I think this format works better.

It’s dark in the Pit.

Not always, not when _he _wanted him to see the blood and bone, see skin ripping from flesh, see muscle and sinew glistening red and angry. But there’s something about the dark that makes it more terrifying, some raw, primal fear, etched into the human conscious. Fear of the unknown, some would say. Dean says it’s because you can’t see what’s coming after you. And that’s worse, the not knowing. Not knowing what’s coming, or where it’s coming from. Lets the mind get creative, lets it dream up the worst.

And then that’s what _he_ brings you.

The screams sound louder in the dark. High, broken, guttural things. (Sometimes Dean forgets they’re his own.)

It’s different now. The darkness is broken by flashes of light, too bright to make out their source. It’s blinding and terrifying. The screams sound distant now, but they aren’t the same screams he’s used to hearing. These screams sound like war cries, like that of battle, aggressive and angry, not like the desperate cries of pain and pleas for help or _stop, please stop _that he’s used to.

There’s blinding light and searing pain. It hurts, but not the way he’s accustomed to hurt; it’s something new and fiercer, white hot and consuming, like being swallowed by the sun, or dragged by a comet. Then there is dark again.

Not Hell dark, there’s something to this that feels…natural. No heart rendering screams, no stench of sulfur. The air smells stale and dead, carrying the smell of something like rotting meat. It’s a smell Dean is intimately familiar with, having dug enough graves in his life. There’s the smell of pine and earth behind it.

His hands blunder to his pockets—and how are his hands free, they’re always tied, always—and he pulls out a lighter. His breathing is erratic as he flicks the lighter and his theory is confirmed as he sees the wood surrounding him. Something akin to panic sets in; he can’t believe he’s out of the Pit, not really. And wouldn’t it be a cruel irony if he is? Escaped from Hell only to suffocate in his own coffin. He calls for help, voice raspy and weak, then again stronger. The lighter is gripped tightly in his hand like a lifeline, though he knows letting it burn is wasting his rapidly dwindling air supply. It doesn’t matter; he’d rather not face the dark.

He searches for any weak spots in the pine and pulls. It gives and dirt covers him, falling into his face and mouth, burying his light. People who are buried alive are supposed to kick with their feet, he remembers seeing that on some crap reality show, supposed to direct the dirt away from their face. He claws and kicks and fights until he pushes a hand through the dirt. Another hand goes through and then he’s breaking free, sucking in a breath of the sweetest air he’s ever tasted. It hurts to pull himself up, every muscle straining with effort but he grips handfuls of grass and pulls until he’s out of the hole and lying flat on his back, blue skies above him. Part of him wants to close his eyes and rest, but it isn’t safe. Nothing is safe. If he’s out of Hell there’s a reason, and it likely doesn’t bode well for him. It never does.

There’s a cross marking his grave, something handmade and unremarkable. He’s in a clearing of the woods, or what once was the wood. The trees have been knocked over, like he was in the center of a bomb detonating. Whatever the hell had the mojo to do that, he wants to get far away from it.

He doesn’t get far before he senses rather than hears something moving. Hells left him a sharpened sense of awareness, but when he glances back what he sees is more surprising than any monster he could expect. It’s a human hand, female from the looks of it, clawing out of the ground close to his grave. Instinct to save kicks in before rational thought tells him that this could be a trap, and he’ll be damned if he lets some poor bastard die on a _could be_. He grabs below the hand, fingers wrapping around slender wrist and forearm and pulls, feet braced on the ground. The hand wraps around his arm, using it as leverage to pull up, nails cutting into his skin. There’ll be bloody claw marks there later, but Dean doesn’t mind. Poor girl’s probably out of her mind with terror.

Another hand breaks through and latches unto him. Dean grits his teeth and pulls, arms still burning from his own earlier efforts. A head breaks through, dirty brown hair caked over the face. There’s something familiar about it all the same, but Dean can’t be bothered to think about that now. He keeps pulling until he can wrap his arms under hers and haul her up. He tugs hard, and the combination of his pulling and her weak legs sends them reeling backward, her landing solidly on top of him. It knocks the wind out of him and his head hits the ground so hard he sees stars. He gets back his breath, and realizes the person still lying on his chest doesn’t have hers.

He swears and rolls her off, less gently than he probably should. Of course a woman of that size shouldn’t have felt so heavy; he should have realized dead weight when he felt it. He shoves the hair from her face and nearly jerks back with shock. “Bela?”

Things between them hadn’t exactly ended pretty, but Dean can’t just leave her out here to die. Die again. Sometimes he misses the days when death was a thing that was final.

Dean breathes into her mouth—and if he thought the taste in his own mouth was foul, hers is ten times worse. She swallowed more dirt than he did. It’s probably the problem, dirt lodged in her throat. He goes through the motions of CPR on autopilot; he’s known how to do this since he was ten. Bela still doesn’t breathe and Dean slams a fist down on her chest. “Dammit Bela, come on.”

Bela’s eyes fly open and she coughing, choking, frantically trying to sit up. Dean grabs a shoulder and turns her on her side, facing him. Bela plants her palm on the ground and shoves herself up on her elbows. She coughs and dirt falls from her mouth. Tears streak through the dirt on her face and snot drips from her nose. Dean pounds her on the back and she chokes up more dirt before she’s retching. She vomits up dirt and blood, dry heaving long after her stomach is empty of its contents.

Her hair hangs in her face and her eyes are still leaking tears when she looks over at Dean. “D-Dean?” Her voice is shaky and small, rasping and broken. She pushes up on her knees and sucks in sharp, panicked breaths. Her eyes dart around, taking in the fallen trees and the blue sky, the graves, but they can’t seem to settle. She’s breathing quick and shallow, sobs trying to work their way from her throat. Dean doesn’t remember Bela ever willingly showing this kind of weakness.

No, that isn’t true. He remembers a phone call, a desperate plea for help. He remembers telling her he’ll see her in Hell. Funny, how things turn out exactly like you expect them sometimes.

“This isn’t real. It’s another trick. It’s not real, not real, not real.” Bela’s hands cover her ears and she rocks back and forth.

It reminds him of the Pit, of the endless desperate cries _please stop please stop pleasestop pleasestoppleasestoppleasestoppleasestop pleasepleaseplease._

“Bela,” Dean says sharply, too sharp to be kind. She flinches at the edge in his voice and curls further into herself. She shakes her head. “You’re not real; you’re one of Alastair’s lies. Dean Winchester doesn’t save me, he lets me die, he doesn’t care.” A hysterical sound spills from her lips, something between a laugh and a sob.

Dean grabs her arm and roughly hauls her to her feet. He’d left Bela to die, but she’d tried to kill him and Sammy. The bitch had deserved it. But Alastair…no one deserved that. Bela was in Hell a lot longer than he was, and he was hardly Alastair’s first pet. He could imagine exactly what Alastair had done to her down there. It’s enough punishment for a lifetime of crimes.

_If_ this is Bela, and not a trick. Having her say he was a trick could be a bluff, a way of throwing him off guard. “How do I know _you_ aren’t a trick?”

“What, to make you feel guilty? You’d have to give a damn first.” Bela says, yanking away from him, practically snarling. She can barely stand on her own. Dean doesn’t reach out to her again; her reaction is too unpredictable. The last thing he wants is to brawl with Bela Talbot. He’s too fucking tired for a fight.

“Oh, I was plenty guilty.” Dean says bitterly. Alastair was sure of that, he found a weakness and picked at it until it bleed. Bela’s death was just one of many crosses he bore.

Bela’s eyes widen and meet his, disbelief and hope warring inside them. It’s a losing war. Hope never wins, in the end. It’s the last thing Alastair takes before he breaks you, and once he takes it there’s no getting it back. Once he finishes a person is as good as empty.

Bela’s turn hollow as she speaks in barely more than a whisper. “I wasn’t.”

That sounds like Bela. Dean doubts it’s true, everyone feels guilty about something, but Bela would never admit otherwise. Besides, he could use a little hope, just to prove he’s still capable of the feeling. Alastair would muster up better than Bela to trick him if this was a trap. “We need to get out of here. Find Sam.”

Bela’s shoulders straighten and her expression calms. She’s back to the Bela he remembers, walls up and mask on. He can relate to that, he’s not the picture of stability himself. “You think he made a deal? Brought you back?”

“Maybe, but why bring you with me? Why here, buried next to me? There wasn’t enough of you left to bury.”

“How do you know?” Bela asks, flinging the question like a knife.

“We had Bobby check.” Dean says with a shrug. “Sam thought it’d be a good idea to salt and burn what was left of you, just in case.”

“I’m touched, really.”

It’s almost a relief to hear the usual sarcasm back in her tone. Anything’s better than the quivering mess she was moments ago. It made him feel strangely protective of her, and the last thing he needs is play white knight to Bela Talbot. She’s a liar and a manipulator and he’d be an idiot to trust her.

He’d be a bigger idiot to let her out of his sight. Whatever’s going on, she’s deep in it.

Dean turns away from her, walking toward what he hopes is civilization and not more woods. He doesn’t look back when he calls “You coming or what?”

+++

It doesn’t take long to find a highway. Unfortunately, it takes a while for that highway to lead anywhere. Dean’s already shed his jacket and tied his long sleeved shirt around his waist. Bela cracked a joke about Winchesters in one layer being nearly naked, but it was a weak attempt at snark. Dean figures she’s too tired for fighting too.

Bela’s complains about the lack of cars or people, saying its proof something is up. As if Dean doesn’t know that. Worse, she’s glaring daggers at his back, like it’s _his_ fault and he’s supposed to do something about it. He considers ditching her, especially when she swears and tosses the broken heel of her boot at him. Or as she says, not _at_ him, he was ‘in the way.’ Dean thinks she should have chosen to die in more sensible footwear. Saying so earns the heel of the other tossed at his head. She misses by a mile, and it gives them something else to bicker about. It’s not as venomous as usual, but it’s better than the silence. The silence feels too heavy.

“I remember my aim being perfect when I shot your brother.”

“You barely grazed him.”

“That’s what I was trying for.”

Dean stops and Bela nearly crashes into him. There’s a gas station ahead, only a few cars parked at it. The sign says closed. Dean shouts hello, or tries to, when they reach the door. Their voices are still weak and raspy. When no one answers Dean unties his shirt from his waist and wraps it around his hand and breaks the glass of the window at the same time Bela finds the spare key taped under the windowsill. “Do you have to be so barbaric?”

Dean ignores her and steps inside. He heads straight toward the back, where bottles of water are stacked. Dean takes one and drains half of it, wandering to look around while Bela gulps down two without stopping. He glances at a paper, surprised to see its September.

“What year?” Bela demands, water dripping down her chin. She looks like something wild and feral and unapproachable, a lion at the watering hole.

“2008.”

Bela nods, her voice wistful. “It feels longer. The time is so different there. How long have you been dead?”

“Four months.”

It’s longer in the Pit, they both know. Bela may have died only months before him, but it was years longer down there. An entire lifetime. “Not to ruin this happy resurrection, but how are we both here and whole? You know what hellhounds do, it isn’t pretty.”

It’s a good question. Dean doesn’t have an answer to it. There’s a mirror by a sink on the wall and he goes to it, splashes cold water on his face. He remembers all too vividly what hellhounds do. He lifts his shirt and examines his stomach, clear and free of any markings, besides his tattoo. Bela comes to stand beside him, intrigued as he is. “It’s not possible.”

Something pulled him from Hell; Dean’s going to expand his definition of possible. It makes him think of the searing heat, the pain he felt. He was too sore from climbing out of his own grave to notice before, but his arm still aches in one place especially, like a sunburn that hasn’t healed. He lifts up his sleeve to see a hand print on his arm.

When he thought something pulled him out of Hell, he didn’t think something literally pulled him out of Hell. It seems he was wrong. Beside him Bela is throwing off her own jacket and whipping her shirt over her head. In another time and place, Dean might have made a joke about her stripping in front of him. After all he’s seen Bela Talbot in her bra isn’t enough to make him bat an eye. It isn’t even lacy or frilly; it looks like something that could have come off the rack of a department store. His attention is focused on the handmark on her arm matching his. Not perfectly matching his, it’s on her opposite arm and it’s the mirror of his. Two halves of a pair of hands.

“What does it mean?” Bela says, as bewildered as him.

“It means trouble.” Dean says, because it always does.

“We should go.” Bela hisses, eyes darting around fearfully. “This place gives me the creeps.”

Dean can’t argue with that; this place gives _him_ the creeps too. They both grab plastic bags and fill them with drinks and food. When Dean comes across an issue of Busty Asian Beauties, Bela rolls her eyes and makes a disgusted noise while he slips it in the bag. Bela goes to the cash register and decides the store owner _wants _to be robbed, as easy as he makes it. The television next to it flickers, something that might worry her if the place has working security cameras, which it doesn’t. She’d noticed when they first came in, its basic instinct to check now, a behavior born of habit. “Dean,”

He comes when she calls, looking at the TV with as much suspicion as her. Vaguely, she wonders if Hell has made them both paranoid head cases. Dean reaches around her and flicks the TV off. The radio comes on instead, and then the television flicks back on, white noise and static. Dean moves before she can string together a coherent train of thought, going for the salt. He tosses one container over his shoulder to her, barking instructions to salt the doors and windows.

There’s a noise, high-pitched and ear shattering. Dean covers his ears and glass shatters. He’s on the floor with glass raining down on him. Bela shrieks, her hands clamped tightly over her own ears, eyes squeezed shut. Dean moves toward her and the glass from the other windows shatter as well. Some knee-jerk instinct has him cover her body with his own, years spent saving and protecting others, even when he’s less concerned about Bela’s well-being than his own.

It stops as suddenly as it began, the quiet as eerie as the noise. Dean moves to the window while Bela scurries behind the counter, out of sight and hopefully out of mind. Dean leaves her with a backward glance and goes to the payphone outside. He tries Sammy first, but the number’s no longer in service. Bobby hangs up on him the first time, and threatens to kill him if he calls back the second. Dean doesn’t bother with a third; Bobby needs to see it to believe it, and even then he’s likely to douse Dean in holy water and chant Latin at him.

There’s a car, and Dean could hotwire a car in his sleep. It’s not as easy as he remembers, though to be fair, he hasn’t done it in over forty years by his time, so he figures he’s allowed to be a little rusty. The sound of the engine has Bela peering through the window. Dean whips the car back to the door and leans over, pushing open the passenger door. “Get in or get left.”

+++

Bela gets to wait in the car while Dean greets Bobby. It’s Dean’s idea; if he thinks Bobby might shoot him, he knows he’ll shoot Bela.

“Surprise.”

Bobby looks surprised, afraid and hopeful at once. “I-I don’t…”

“Yeah, me neither, but here I am.” Dean says, stepping in while Bobby continues to gape at him.

The knife might have got him, if he didn’t expect it to come any minute. He catches the arm and twists it behind his back, so of course Bobby hits him with the other one, sending him reeling. “Bobby it’s me.”

“My ass.”

Dean hadn’t expected it to be easy, but Bobby’s pretty eager to get that knife in him, so he keeps a chair between them, hand held up. “Wait. Your name is Robert Steven Singer, you became a hunter after you’re wife got possessed, you’re about the closest thing I have to a father.” There isn’t a knife sticking out of his person yet, so Dean takes it as a good sign. “Bobby, it’s me.”

Bobby comes closer and lowers the knife. Dean casts a wary eye toward it. Bobby hasn’t lived as long as he has without being overly cautious and possibly paranoid. His hand comes to rest on Dean’s shoulder and the knife swings toward his throat. Dean dodges and twists Bobby’s arm behind his back. “I’m not a shapeshifter.”

Naturally, Bobby accuses him of being something else.

Dean has the knife so he pushes Bobby away. “Alright, if I was either could I do this with a silver knife?” He hesitates before he cuts himself; it’s a bit selfish, but he likes the relative lack of pain in his newly resurrected body.

“Dean?”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to tell ya.” Dean says, stepping closer.

Bobby’s eyes tear up and he hugs him. It’s a full on Hallmark moment. If Hallmark covered things like Hell and demon deals and clawing out of your own grave. On second thought, it’s not much of a Hallmark moment at all. But it’s good, good to feel contact that doesn’t intend to hurt. It’s good to feel safe and cared for.

Bobby pulls back and looks him over. “It’s good to see you, boy.”

“Yeah, you too.” Dean says, hand moving to grip Bobby’s shoulder a moment longer. It feels a little like checking to see if he’s real.

“How did you bust out?”

“I don’t know.” Dean says, turning away. “I just woke up in a pine box.”

When he turns back Bobby splashes him in the face with holy water. Really, he should have expected that. He squirts the water out of his mouth and looks at Bobby. “I’m not a demon either you know.”

“Sorry,” says Bobby, “can’t be too careful.”

He has a point.

When he asks Dean to explain, Dean leaves out Bela. That’s something he needs to build up to. “That don’t make a lick of sense.” Bobby says, moving into the next room. Dean follows behind him, drying his face with a dishtowel.

“Yeah, you’re preaching to the choir.” The second half of said choir was sitting outside in a stolen car, growing more impatient by the second. Dean doesn’t trust her not to drive off on her own. The only reason she’s stuck with him is likely strength in numbers. Better to be with him than alone. Even better to be with him and Bobby.

“Dean, your chest was ribbons. You’re insides were slop.” Bobby says, like Dean needs that sort of mental imagery. “And you’ve been buried four months. Even if you could slip out of Hell and back in your meatsuit-“

“I know, I should look like a Thriller video reject.” Dean cuts in, before the image gets more graphic.

“What do you remember?”

_The dark. _

_The fear. _

_The smell. _

_The screams._

_The pain._

_Alastair._

_The rack._

_pleasestopspleasestoppleasestop_

_Everything and all of it, every slice of the knife and crack of whip, every touch and every word._

“Not much.” Dean says. Bobby can tell when he’s lying, so he doesn’t give him time to think about it. “I remember being a Hellhound’s chew toy. And then lights out.” _No light, no light, no light in Hell. Too dark to see what’s coming, too dark to see how close, lights out, lights out, lights out. _“Then I woke up six feet under.”

Bobby sits down, like he can’t bear to stand anymore. Dean gets it. He’d like to sit down himself. Or lie down. In a bed. For a week. Maybe a month. But he doesn’t get to be so lucky. Back alive and back to work. “There’s more I didn’t tell you.”

“How much more can there be?”

Bela choses to honk the horn at that moment. Dean winces a little, from her poor timing and the lasting ringing in his ears. Whatever made that noise gave him one hell of an earache. “I didn’t come back alone.”

“You gonna keep me in suspense?”

“Bela.” Dean says, letting it out quick. Better to rip the band-off and get it over with.

“Bela?”

“Bela.”

“Why her?”

Dean shrugs. “Why me?”

“I took care of her body myself, there ain’t nothing left to come back.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll figure it out.” Dean says, as the horn honks again.

If Bela’s honking it means she’ll be barging in any minute. There are some things he’d rather discuss without her presence. “Sam’s number’s not working. He’s not…?” _Dead_. He can’t say the word. Can’t think it. Sammy has to be alive. He has to. Otherwise what’s the point?

“Oh, he’s alive, as far as I know.”

As far as Bobby knows. That’s a strange way of putting it. But he says Sam’s alive. It’s good. It has to be. “Good.” But then... “What do you mean as far as you know?”

“I haven’t talked to him for months.”

Months? What the hell was Bobby thinking? Sam was target number one with the demons and Bobby hadn’t talked to him for _months? _ “You’re kidding, you just let him go off by himself?”

“He was dead set on it.”

“Bobby, you should have been looking after him.”

“I tried.” Bobby said, anger threading into his voice. These last months haven’t been exactly easy, you know. For him or me. We had to bury you.”

“Why did you bury me anyway?” Dean has to ask. It’s not what hunters do.

“I wanted you salted and burned. Usual drill, but Sam wouldn’t have it.”

“I’m glad he won that one.”

“He said you’d need a body when he got you back home somehow.” Bobby says. The look on his face lets Dean know exactly what reaction he’s expecting. “That’s about all he said.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Sam’s done something stupid, Dean can feel it. Some kind of deal or witchcraft or bad mojo. Something that’ll get him in over his head. “What do you mean?”

“He was quiet. Real quiet.” Bobby says. “Then just took off, wouldn’t return my calls.”

Dean sighs and closes his eyes. He goes to hell to keep Sammy safe and what does Sam do? Goes and fucks it all up to bring him back. “I tried to find him, but he don’t wanna be found.”

Dean presses a hand to his forehead. He can add a headache to his list of aches and pain. “Damn it, Sammy.”

“What?”

“Oh, he got me home okay. But whatever he did, it is bad mojo.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“You should have seen the grave.” The answer comes from the door and both men turn to see Bela sauntering in like she owns the place.

“It was like a nuke went off.” Dean adds.

“Don’t forget our friend at the gas station.” Bela says flippantly. “My ears surely don’t.”

“It was this force, this presence, I don’t know. But it blew right past us at a fill up joint.”

Bobby glances back at Bela, but Dean’s talking again before he can speak. “And then this.” Dean pulls off his overshirt and lifts his sleeve, showing Bobby his handprint. “She’s got one too.”

Bela yanks up her own sleeve to prove it and comes to stand by Dean. Bobby looks at them in wonder. “What in the hell?”

“It was like a demon just yanked us out.”

“Or rode us out.” Bela adds, before Dean can. It’s a bit unsettling, having Bela sharing the same thought process as him. It’s only a fluke, most likely, but he can’t be sure. The same big nasty could have been poking around both their brainpans.

“But why?” Bobby says.

“To hold up their end of the bargain.”

“You think Sam made a deal?”

Dean let’s out something that’s almost a laugh. “It’s what I would have done.”

“Yes, but Sam’s the clever one.” Bela says. “Besides, why would Sam want to rescue me?”

“She has a point.” Bobby says. “Why’d Sam want her?”

Dean throws his hands up in the air. “I don’t know, maybe he had a thing for her.”

Bela snorts, an unladylike sound and most definitely not the sort he’d expect to come from her. “Still projecting unto Sam I see.”

Dean rounds to look at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bela sighs and practically rolls her eyes. “It means we both know _you_ were the one with a thing for me.”

“Wh-I did not have a _thing _for you.”

Bela smiles, half wicked and half patronizing. “It’s alright. I had a thing for you too.”

Dean crosses his arms and clears his throat. “You did?” Bobby smacks him in the back of his head. “What the hell, Bobby?!”

“Just reminding you which brain to think with.”

“That’s assuming he has one.” Bela says sweetly. Dean flips her off just as sweetly in return.

Bobby ignores the bickering. “What about you, you remember anything?”

Bela’s smile freezes on her face and her eyes flick over to Dean. He gives the slightest shake of his head. She supposes Bobby’s got enough to worry about without knowing Dean remembers every godforsaken moment down there. If she had someone like Bobby she’d want them to believe the same. “Oh, you know. Pain, agony, endless torture. Just what’d you expect, really.”

Dean’s giving her a look that could kill, and while she may have once enjoyed jerking Dean’s chain, she’s a bit over it. Hell does that to a girl, takes the fun out of the simple things. “At least that’s what I gather from what I can piece together. It’s all a bit muddled. Probably for the best.”

“Yeah, probably.” Bobby replies.

Dean’s looking at her in a way that almost shows gratitude. It feels unnatural. Dean Winchester is an idiot with a hero complex; he’d save her from a grave and cover her from danger because it was who he was, nothing personal. Bela knows it. Dean likes saving people, he likes fast cars and pretty girls and playing hero. She never thought he’d really let her die. If it had been only him she tried to kill, he wouldn’t. But she went after Sam, and that was the one thing Dean wouldn’t stand for.

It isn’t as if she doesn’t feel guilty for that. There are always casualties in their world, but the Winchesters were some of the good guys. The good guys were few and far between and increasingly harder to find. And the thing about good guys is that they’re always so eager to rush in and save the day. It makes them easy to manipulate.

Bela’s fine with taking advantage of some morons with a white knight complex, but she never wanted to _hurt_ them. She doesn’t like the killing. She never has. Her parents had to die because what they did to her, it was the only escape. It didn’t matter how they died, there was no pleasure in their death, only that they were gone. Their suffering meant little in the end.

When she’d been told to kill the Winchesters, it was just survival. Nothing personal. They died and she got out of her deal. There was no pleasure in pulling the trigger. She did it because she had to. Just like she did with Alastair. Getting off that rack was the simplest decision in the world. It didn’t matter who else hurt, it mattered that they _weren’t her_. Just survival, pure and simple.

Gratitude doesn’t fit into that. She doesn’t want Dean’s gratitude and she doesn’t want his pity. She’s seen it in his eyes when he looked at her. Playing on that pity would be simple, but she finds she doesn’t want to. Maybe it’s the small shred of dignity she has left from the Pit, but her pride won’t allow it. Emotional manipulation is one thing, suckering in some halfwit with a shotgun and hero complex is child’s play, all part of the act. Having Dean Winchester actually _feel sorry_ for her makes her bristle under her skin.

And here she is stuck with him, because whatever wants him wants her as well. Running would be easy. If whatever it is wants them both, staying together gives it an easy target. Separating from Dean at least gives her a chance; it may go after him first and she can stay safely hidden while he and his band of merry men take care of it. Then again, Dean has a support system, and if she runs she’s alone. It’s a lot easier to catch someone on their own. Like it or not, she needs someone to have her back here.

She’s sick of running, of hiding. Her whole life has been spent trying to run away from things. First her parents, then her deal, then Alastair, and now this. She’s tired of running. Maybe it’s time she started fighting. End it once and for all. Lilith, Alastair, whatever dragged her from Hell. Get rid of them all, no more loose ends, nothing left to run from. She could finally be free. To do that, she’ll have to go against every instinct she has to run; she’ll have to fight.

Fighting is what the Winchesters are good at.

“We need to find Sam. We’ll need him.” she says. Both Bobby and Dean look at her like she’s grown a second head.

“Need him for what?” Bobby says, eying her warily.

“To kill whatever thing dragged us up from Hell. It wasn’t a deal. I know deals, and this wasn’t one. It’s something else. And if it pulled us up then it wants something from us.”

“And demons never want anything good.” Dean says. He isn’t sold on it not being a deal, but he’s considering it. Probably because he wants it to _not_ be a deal. Wants darling Sammy to know better. The alternative to Sam saving them is something else did, and probably not out of brotherly affection.

“Well, I’ll let you boys track down Sam. I’m long overdue for a shower.” Bela says. She wrinkles her nose at her dirt-streaked, vomit stained clothes. “I suppose a change of clothes is too much to ask?”

+++

Dean and Bobby go to find Sam. Bela stays behind, mostly because she doesn't want to deal with the gag worthy family reunion. Instead she takes a very long shower, and snoops through Bobby's things. He's left her a pair of jeans and a white tee shirt. Both are a little too big, but she can make do. His selection of food is appalling, but she's starving so it'll suffice.

“Why are we stopping?”

Bela would recognize Sam's dulcet tone anywhere. It's nice to hear him alive, despite all they've been through.

“We gotta pick something up.” Dean answers.

“What?”

“Her.” Bobby points to Bela.

Sam draws his knife. Bela arches a brow. “Put that away, Sam, it's me.”

“Not exactly a good reason with you. You tried to kill me.”

“Needs must. We're on the same side for now.”

Dean rests a hand on Sam's arm. “I pulled her out of the ground myself. Whatever freaky stuff is going on involves her too.”

“You're riding with me, girl. You boys try to keep up.”

+++

The psychic hugs Bobby, lifts him clean off the ground. Bela wonders how close they are. She suspects they banged at least once.

“So these the boys?”

Bobby inclines his head. “Sam, Dean, Pamela Barnes, best damn psychic in the state.”

That much is true—Bela has heard of her. Bobby makes a gesture to her. “And this here is Bela. Trust her as far as you can throw her.”

Pamela eyes Bela and says nothing. Bela doesn't sense that she's too worried about her.

“Dean Winchester, out of the fire into the frying pan.” says Pamela. “I'd say it makes you rare, but I hear you didn't come back alone.”

Pamela turns and eyes Bela over. “You're a lucky girl.”

Oh, I think luck has little to do with it.”

Pamela gestures to the door. “Come on inside.”

The psychic hasn't found anything useful, and she suggests a séance. While she's setting up, Dean notices her tattoo and nudges Sam. “Whose Jesse?”

Pamela chuckles. “Well it wasn't forever.”

“His loss.”

“Might be your gain.”

Bela rolls her eyes.

“She's going to eat you alive.”

Pamela breezes by, “You're invited too, Grumpy.”

Dean points at Sam “You are not invited.”

“Are you two always like this?” Bela asks.

“Are you allergic to fun?” Dean says back.

“Get along children.” Pamela calls. “We're ready.”

They gather round the table, Bela on one side of Pamela and Dean on the other.

“I need to touch something our mystery monster touched.” Pamela says and reaches toward Dean.

“He didn't touch me there!”

“My mistake.”

Bela pulls up her sleeve. “Here.”

Sam stares at the hand mark seared on her flesh. She lets out a small smile. “No more tank tops for me.”

Pamela begins to chant. “I invoke, conjure and command you, appear unto me before this circle.” She pauses for a second, face furrowed in concentration. “Castiel? No, I don't scare easy.”

“Castiel?” Dean and Bela say at once.

Whatever Castiel is, it warns Pamela to turn back. The way the table starts rattling, Bela thinks maybe they should listen. Pamela demands to see it's face and the table starts to shake. “Maybe we should stop.” says Bobby.

“I'm with Bobby,” says Bela. Something about this feels dangerous in a way that's giving her goosebumps.

“I almost got it.”

The flames jump high and white light fills Pamela's eyes as she screams and slumps to the ground. Her eyes are burnt out.

+++

“We got a name. Castiel or whatever. With the right mumbo jumbo we could summon him right to us.”

“Are you mad?” hisses Bela. She glances around the diner before adding “He burnt out that woman's eyes.”

“I hate to say this, but I'm with Bela here.”

“You got a better idea?”

Sam mentions some demons he followed to town. “Some one's gotta know something about something.”

The waitress returns and pulls a chair up between Dean and Bela. “Looking for us?”

Her eyes go black. Bela slides toward the end of her chair, but the woman grabs her by the thigh. A man stands up and his eyes go black as well. He locks the door.

“Dean, to hell and back. Aren't you a lucky duck.” The demon turns and looks at Bela. “And little Abbey. What makes you two so special?”

“I like to think it's my perky nipples.”

“We don't know,” says Bela. The grip on her leg tightens.

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, it is.” says Dean.

“Lying is a sin, you know.”

“I'm not lying. But I'd like to find out, so how about enlightening me, Flo.”

“Watch your tone with me boy, or I'll drag you both back to Hell myself.”

Dean smiles. Bela rather thinks that if it was him the demon was groping he'd be less cocky.

“No, you won't. If you were, you'd have done it already. The fact is, you don't know who cut us loose, and you're just as spooked as we are. You're looking for answers.”

The demon loosens its grip a little. She seems nervous.

“Maybe it was some turbo charged spirit. Or Godzilla. Or some big bad boss demon. But I'm guessing at your pay grade they don't tell you squat. Cause whoever it was, they want me out and they're a lot stronger than you.”

Bela jumps in. “He's right. Send us back. See what happens to you. Trust me, it won't be pretty.”

“I'm going to reach down her throat and rip out her lungs.”

“No, you won't,” Dean says and stands up. “Come on, let's go Sammy.”

Both boys rise and Dean holds out a hand to Bela. The demon lets her go. “Yeah, that's what I thought.”

Bela rises from the table, her hand firmly in Dean's. They're outside before he lets her go. Once he does he lets out a huge breath. “Holy crap that was close.”

“We're not just going to leave them in there, are we Dean?” says Sam, all full of righteous indignation.

“Hell yes we are. There's three of them and the last I checked you boys only have one of those handy knives.” Bela says.

“I've been killing a lot more demons lately.”

“Not anymore. The smarter brother's back in town.” Dean says.

Bela glares at Sam. “Forget him, I'm with you and I'm not about to be killed for your hero complex.”

“Someone else could get killed if we don't,” Sam argues. “Dean, we have to take them out.”

“They're scared Sammy, scared of whatever had the juice to yank us out. We're dealing with one bad mofo here. One job at a time.”

“Dear God, you may actually be the smarter brother.”

///

Bela follows Sam out of the hotel to the impala and slides into the passenger seat. “Where we going?”

“_We_ aren't going anywhere. Get out.”

Bela pouts. “Now Sam, is that any way to talk to a lady?”

She grins at him. “Going back to hunt those demons? You boys are so predictable.”

Sam starts the car. “Maybe I am. If so, you really wanna be there?”

Bela considers. She climbs out of the car. “I prefer my insides intact.”

“Same old Bela, only interested in saving her own ass.”

“We can't all play the hero Sammy. Who would be left for to feel superior toward?”

Dean is asleep back inside. Bela toys with the idea of waking him, but decides against it. He'd want to chase down Sam, and Sam was a bog boy. He could handle himself.

A high-pitched ringing broke Bela's thoughts. The television flickers and the radio turns on. Bela dives and grabs Dean's gun. Dean wakes and is immediately on alert. He motions for Bela to give him back the gun, but she has no intention of doing so. If he wanted a gun he should have left her a gun as well. It was a dangerous world.

“Bela, don't make me take that from you.”

Bela pointed the gun at him. “You could try. My aim is impeccable. Ask Sam.”

Dean glances around. “Where is Sam?”

“Left to go kill those demons from the diner.”

“And you let him go?”

“I'm not his mother.”

The ringing grows louder. Bela drops the gun and covers her ears. Beside her Dean is groaning and doing the same. They both fall to their knees. Glass shatters around them. The mirrors, the windows, the tacky mirror above the bed. Bela scrambles under the bed and screams. Dean falls down unto the broken glass clutching his ears.

The door busts open. Bobby rushes in, screaming Dean's name. He gets Dean up and out the door and returns to help pull Bela to her feet. The ringing is so loud she can barely stand it, she's near tears. Somehow they all make it to Bobby's car.

“How you doing kid?” Bobby asks.

“Aside from the church bells ringing in my head...peachy.”

Bobby shots a look to the back where Bela is huddled over. “What about you?”

“Me? Never better.”

Dean pulls out his phone and dials Sam. “Turn around, now.”

“Bela told you.”

“Yep.”

Sam sighs. “Fine. What are you doing up?”

“Well, uh Bela can't sleep, so we're going to go grab a beer.”

Bobby shoots Dean a look. Dean holds up a finger to shush him.

“Beer with Bela?” Sam snorts. “Well uh, have fun with that.”

“Catch up with us there.”

“Yeah, on the way.”

Dean hangs up. “What are the chances he turns around.”

“I'd say slim to none.” Bobby answers.

“None at all.” says Bela.

“That's why we're going to stop him.” Dean says. “Bobby you're drop off me and Bela and go back and help Sammy.”

“Drop us off where?”says Bela, then leans forward in her seat. “No, no, no. I know what you're thinking and we are not summoning that thing.”

“Yeah, we are. It's time to face it head on.”

“You can't be serious.” Bobby says.

“As a heart attack.”

“You're going to give me a heart attack,” Bela grouses.

“We don't know what it is. It could be a demon. It could be anything,” Bobby says.

“That's why we've got to be ready for anything. We got the big time magic knife. You got an arsenal in the trunk.”

“This is insane.” Bela argues.

“I couldn't agree more but what other choice do we have?”

“We could chose not dying,” Bela says.

Dean turns to look at Bela. “Bela, whatever this is, whatever it wants, it's after us. That much we know, right?”

“Yes, but-” Bela says stiffly.

“We got no place to hide. So we get caught with our pants down, or we can make a stand.”

“Dean, you could use Sam for this.” Bobby says.

“The more the merrier, I say.” Bela agrees.

“He's busy trying to get himself killed.”

“Runs in the family, apparently.”

+++

Something has burned out the demon's eyes. _Castiel_. It's just like Pamela. It's all Sam has time to think before the waitress jumps on him, knocking him to the ground. He's grateful Dean isn't here to see him get his ass kicked by a ninety pound girl. He gets the upper hand and sees the girl is in the same shape as her friend. “Your eyes.”

“I could still smell your soul a mile away.”

She was here, she saw it, whatever it was. “Who was here? You saw it.”

Something like a sob escapes her mouth. “I saw it.”

“What was it?”

She sobs. “It's the end. We're dead. We're all dead.”

“What did you see?”

She laughs. “Go to hell.”

“Funny...I was going to say the same thing to you.” Sam reaches out a hand, concentrates. He imagines the demon in his mind, thinks of pulling it from it's vessel. She gasps, gags. He can't see her—it's easier to do this with his eyes closed—but he knows black smoke is spilling from her, escaping her body. She chokes, and he hears the thud of her knees hitting the ground, then another thud as she falls over.

Sam sighs. The waitress is on the floor, out cold. He hopes, as slim as the chances are, that she's still alive. He places his fingers on her pulse and feels nothing. He exhales sharply. “Damn it.”

He hears footsteps behind him. “Sam?”

Bobby is looking at him in awe. Awe and something else, something akin to fear. Concern. He saw and he's afraid. Afraid of Sam's power. “What the hell was that?”

“Bobby, I can explain.”

///

The building they're in is abandoned. Bela has covered every inch of it in talismans and traps. They're from different faiths and cultures. She can't remember which is which, but she knows the signs. She's learned them all.

“That's a hell of an art project you got there.”

Bela shrugged. “We don't know what to prepare for so I've prepared for everything.”

“How do you know so much about this?”

Bela smiles wryly. “I was classically educated.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe one day I'll tell you,” Bela says and walks over to where Dean as an arsenal spread out. “What do we have here?”

“Stakes, iron, silver, salt, a knife. I mean we're pretty much set to catch and kill anything I've ever heard of.”

“And what about the things you haven't?”

Dean sighed and didn't raise to the bait. “What do you say we ring the dinner bell?”

Bela doesn't like this idea—but if worse comes to worse, she can leave Dean to deal with the monster and run. It'd only be fair after he left her to hell hounds. She goes and picks up the bowl and begins the ritual.

“Amate spiritus obscure...”

///

The waitresses dead body is cooling on the ground. It should be disturbing, sitting in a booth with Bobby with a corpse less than five feet away, but it isn't. That's just how weird his life is now.

“You gotta tell Dean about what you're doing.”

It's what he thought Bobby would say. He isn't wrong. “Yeah, I just got to figure the right way to say it.”

Bobby gives him a look. Sam sighs. “Look, I just need time, okay? That's all.”

“Well, I ain't gonna be the one to tell him. He needs to hear it from you.”

“He's gonna be pissed,” Sam says. “He's so hard-headed about this psychic stuff he'll just try and stop me.”

“He's your brother. He worries about you.”

“Yeah, but I'm not a kid anymore Bobby, I can handle this.”

“Can you?” Bobby asks, not unkindly. He worries too, Sam knows.

“I don't know if what I'm doing is right. What I do know is I'm saving people and stopping demons. And that feels good.”

///

“You sure you did the ritual right?”

Bela shoots Dean a nasty look.

“You aren't a hunter. This isn't your thing,” Dean says.

“You'd be surprised.”

The wind begins to howl. There's rumbling as the roof above them clatters and shakes. “Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind.”

The light bulb above their head explodes. “What that the wind?” Bela snarks.

The door opens and a man in a trench-coat walks in. He's ordinary looking—attractive, but nothing about him says 'powerful demon'. Still, there is power _radiating_ from him.

Dean shoots at him. Bela follows suit. The man walks past all her traps. Dean and Bela keep shooting, but he walks on, unfazed. Bela backs away, scrambling to think of what to do next. Dean goes for the knife. _Because that will work, if a gun doesn't. Idiot. _

“Who are you?” Dean demands.

“I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” His voice is like gravel. It's also dead sexy, but it probably isn't the time to make note of that.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Dean says and stabs him through the heart with the knife.

Bela gasps. The man acts like nothing happened. He even has a hint of a smile. Bela suspects he enjoys scaring them. Or perhaps he is like a villain in a cheesy movie that tells the hero he likes their moxie before ordering them killed.

The man pulls the knife from his chest. It hits the ground with a clatter. Bela is frozen. She hasn't been this terrified since the hell hounds came for her. She knows she should do something to help Dean, but she can't move, can't think. She has no weapon in hand, nothing but the gun and it's useless.

The man looks at her, waiting. Bela swallows and tries to summon the courage to do something, anything. When she doesn't he looks back to Dean. “Dean, Bela, we need to talk.”

“Who are you?” Bela says. Hates herself when her voice shakes. She blames Hell—she was never this weak before the pit.

“Castiel.” He's looking at the collection of weapons with a sort of detached interest.

“Yeah, we figured that much,” Dean says. “_What_ are you?”

“I'm an angel of the lord.”

Bela feels a hysterical laugh bubbling inside her. An angel. A real life angel.

“Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing.”

“This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith,” Castiel says. He inclines his head toward Bela. “She believes me.”

Thunder rumbles and lightening flashes. Suddenly, there's an outline of wings on the wall. Black and beautiful and terrifying. Bela wants to reach out a hand and touch them. She doesn't.

Dean eyes Castiel. He's having a moment of his own. “Some angel you are. You burnt out that poor woman's eyes.”

Castiel hangs his head, like a school boy being reprimanded by a teacher. “I warned her not to spy on my true form.”

He steps closer to Dean. “It can be overwhelming to humans. So can my real voice...but you two already knew that.”

“You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you talking?”

Castiel nods.

“Buddy, next time lower the volume.”

“That was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage.” Castiel looks back at Bela. “I thought you would be one of them.” His gaze goes back to Dean. “I was wrong.”

“And what visage are you in now, huh?” Dean asks. “What, holy tax accountant?”

“Looks more like Constantine cosplay,” Bela says. She had rather enjoyed the comics as a girl.

“This? This is...a vessel,” Castiel says, fingering the lapels of his coat.

“You're possessing some poor bastard?”

“He's a devout man. He actually prayed for this.”

Bela snorts “Oh, I doubt that.”

Dean says “Look pal, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you, really?”

Castiel face furrows in confusion. “I told you.”

“Right. And why would an angel rescue me from hell? Why would an angel rescue _her_?”

“Good things do happen, Dean.”

“Not in my experience.”

Castiel walks closer and closer to Dean. “What's the matter?”

There's some serious eye contact going on. It's intense. Bela's grateful Dean has caught his attention instead of her.

Castiel tilts his head. “You don't think you deserve to be saved.”

Of course Dean doesn't, martyr that he is. Bela knows she didn't deserve to be saved, but she doesn't particularly care.

“Why'd you do it?” Dean asks.

“Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Like always I'd love to hear any thoughts, but no pressure to comment. I'm writing this fic mostly for myself because it was something I wanted to read.


End file.
